


If You Can't Be With the One You Love

by RileyC



Category: DCU, World's Finest - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Dating, Identity!Porn, M/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 07:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/353838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark Kent has a crush on Batman; Batman's in love with Superman,  who he doesn't know is Clark; while Clark is falling for Bruce Wayne, who he doesn't know is Batman.</p><p>Confused yet? :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Who's On First?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this WFGE prompt: _F16 Cyrano de Bergerac, with bonus mistaken identity! Since our two heroes have at least four identities between them, Hero 1 asks Hero 2 for romantic advice & assistance to help Hero 1 seduce Hero 2's other identity. Maybe Batman asks Superman to help him write love letters to Clark; maybe Clark asks Bruce for advice on how to seduce Batman, maybe Matches Malone gets involved! I don't care who's who, which identities you use, or which canon you use. Have fun with it!_

**1\. Who's On First?**

Clark Kent gave a start of surprise, completely unfeigned, as he stepped off the elevator with Lucius Fox and found Bruce Wayne lounging elegantly against the wall. “Umm, Mr. Wayne.”

“Mr. Kent.”

Clark pushed at his glasses and felt twice as awkward as usual in the presence of this man who regularly made every best dressed, most beautiful, and sexiest list going. Of course Bruce Wayne was waiting for his CEO, he had to be. Why on earth would he be waiting for Clark Kent?

“Did you have a good interview?”

Clark glanced at Lucius Fox, back at Bruce Wayne. “Well, yes; Mr. Fox was very informative.”

“Was he?” Wayne favored his CEO with a dryly amused look. “I’ve generally found him to be a tough nut to crack.”

Clark had no idea how to reply to that but he would have sworn Lucius Fox rolled his eyes.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me.” Lucius Fox moved past them both. “It was a pleasure talking with you, Mr. Kent.”

Clark was inclined to doubt that but he appreciated the older man’s graciousness. “Thank you, sir,” he said and held out his hand.

Lucius Fox shook hands, gave his employer a skeptical look, nodded at them and took his leave.

“Well,” Bruce Wayne said, and smiled.

“Umm,” Clark Kent said, and blinked. 

Bruce Wayne caught him by the elbow and tugged. “Let’s go to lunch.”

~*~

Bruce surprised him by taking him, not to some trendy, five-star restaurant that required reservations six months in advance (unless you were the Prince of Gotham), but to a nearby diner. True, Kirby’s Diner wasn’t exactly a greasy spoon. The interior was gleaming wood and chrome, banquettes upholstered in white leather and the tables like polished onyx, with Sinatra playing on the jukebox instead of George Jones. The service was friendly, though, and the menu prices weren’t beyond a reporter’s salary—not that Bruce would let him pay. That had already been decisively settled before they sat down.

They had argued over appetizers, fried calamari vs. nachos, and finally compromised on baked macaroni and cheese. Common ground had been found immediately when it came to a salad, as they both agreed salads were supposed to be about tossed greens, not tossed greens with strawberries, nuts, and salmon. Clark declined when Bruce suggested they both order the grilled Norwegian salmon sandwich with lemon dill caper mayonnaise and arugula, and chose a grilled chicken sandwich instead, with roasted red peppers and mozzarella, served with home-style French fries. By the time Bruce had gotten most of his life story out of him and stolen half his fries, they were on a first name basis and as comfortable as if they had known each other for years.

When Perry White had sent him to Gotham to interview Lucius Fox for a profile on Wayne Enterprise’s CEO, Clark hadn’t anticipated that he would run into Bruce at all. Common knowledge, after all, had it that Bruce’s involvement with the company was purely nominal and he was more likely to be found playing polo or having afternoon tea than ever in the boardroom.

Common knowledge, Clark was discovering, was a big fat crock.

As Bruce sneaked one last French fry, Clark smacked his hand. “Hey, get your own.”

Mouth turned down in a comical pout, Bruce said, “But they taste better off someone else’s plate.”

Clark rolled his eyes at that logic. “Fine.” He broke the last fry in two and offered half to Bruce. “Happy now?”

Bruce took it and popped it in his mouth. “Very. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Their waitress, a perky college student named Sophie, came over to offer more coffee and tempt them with dessert. Bruce looked across the table at Clark, perfectly groomed eyebrows raised in inquiry. “What do you think? Shall we indulge?”

“You’re buying.”

“Good point.” Bruce smiled charmingly at Sophie. “What would you recommend, Sophie?”

“Well,” she thought about it, “you don’t want the bread pudding. Marcel, that’s who does desserts, tried something different with that and we’re all agreed he shouldn’t do it again. The cheesecake’s good, though, and we’ve got some pies, and an apple crumb cake served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream that’ll hit the right spot.”

Bruce looked at Clark. “The apple crumb cake?”

He nodded. “Okay, but I should warn you, my mother makes the best apple crumb cake in the world.”

“Not possible,” Bruce said. “My butler, Alfred, has the exclusive claim to that.”

“Does he make the ice cream himself?”

Those perfect eyebrows scrunched towards each other and the square jaw set up in a way that teased Clark’s memory. “Of course.”

Clark planted his elbows on the table and leaned in close. “Does he milk the cow?”

Bruce narrowed midnight blue eyes at him and made a grumpy sound. “Fine, you win.”

Clark stared at him, flummoxed for a moment. He’d just had the oddest feeling, like some vast mystery had almost revealed itself to him, only to as swiftly flit away.

“Clark? Are you all right?”

“What? Oh, yes,” he sat back, “I’m fine.” Maybe some sub-atomic particle of Kryptonite had just sped by. He couldn’t think of any other reason for feeling almost light-headed for an instant there. He smiled at Sophie. “I’m sure Marcel’s apple crumb cake will be delicious.”

“It will,” she said and smiled back. “Mama’s is always better, though, even if she’s a butler.”

Clark laughed at Bruce’s perplexed expression as Sophie walked away.

~*~

By the time they had finished the apple crumb cake and ice cream—almost up to Martha Kent’s standards—Clark had heard enough about Alfred Pennyworth to agree with Sophie that Mr. Pennyworth was quite a bit more than just a butler.

“You’ll have to meet him,” Bruce said as he pushed his plate away and sat back, looking content.

“Meet your butler?” Not sure where this was headed, Clark opted for the path least likely to mortify him. “As part of my profile on Mr. Fox?”

Some of the contentment faded from Bruce’s face as he looked back at Clark. Something in his expression suggested he might be debating whether or not Clark was thicker than two planks. “No, because I invited you to visit the Manor.” He enunciated slowly and precisely, as though he suspected Clark might have trouble following him otherwise.

Once again, Clark experienced that strange sense of déjà vu, only to have it instantly slip from his grasp again. “I’m…not sure…”

Head cocked slightly, Bruce waited from him to finish. When he didn’t, he prodded, “You’re not sure about what?”

Shoulders hunched a bit, Clark gave him a wary look. “What we’re talking about?”

Bruce looked pointedly at Clark’s left hand. “You’re not wearing a ring.”

Clark followed his gaze. “No, no I’m not.”

“Are you seeing someone?”

“I’m not sure how that’s any of your business,” Clark said, more to stall than anything else. Bruce Wayne was hitting on him? The thought had crossed his mind, yes, but—The Prince and the Ploughboy? When Bruce had his pick of socialites and super models? Yet now Bruce had put it right out there and he couldn’t ignore it. “Why, are you,” he hesitated and shot Bruce a quick, wary look, then away again, “asking me out?” As he waited for a reply, he pulled a napkin from the holder on the table and began shredding it.

“Would that be a problem?”

He shrugged, still shredding. 

“Clark,” Bruce reached over and laid a hand over his, “stop abusing the napkin and look at me.”

He looked at Bruce’s hand, resting so naturally atop his. There had been an article in the _Planet’s_ Sunday lifestyle section a couple of weeks ago, about how holding hands was the new first kiss. The author had gone on about how the erotic, tactile sensation of palm caressing palm, fingers entangled and slipping free, only to curl around each other again, was like sex you could have in public. When he’d read it, Clark had thought the author was just desperate to sell her latest book on relationships. Right at this moment, however, as Bruce Wayne’s fingers brushed the back of his hand and pressed against his knuckles, he was inclined to dramatically revise that opinion. 

“Umm,” he looked at Bruce, wishing he would stop touching him—hoping he wouldn’t, “what was the question?”

Surprisingly, there was no hint of smug triumph in Bruce’s smile. Clark had thought there might be. Actually, Bruce looked a bit uncertain himself, as if something had surprised him. “I asked if it would be a problem, if I asked you out.”

“Oh. Right.” Would it? It wasn’t like the thought had never flitted across his mind, he admitted, vividly recalling moments when a certain Caped Crusader had aroused feelings that went quite a bit beyond simple camaraderie. He’d never done anything about it; he never would, because…it was _Batman_. He had thought it was exclusive to Batman. Given his reaction to Bruce, though, that was another belief he would have to tweak. “It wouldn’t freak me out or anything, if that’s what you mean.”

“Good to know.” Bruce nodded and lightly stroked the back of Clark’s hand. “ _Are_ you involved with anyone right now?” he asked again.

Clark shivered and drew in a sharp breath. “Not exactly.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “How not exactly? You’ve got your eye on someone?”

Clark’s laugh was only slightly pained. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing’s ever going to happen. He’s about as unobtainable as someone can be.”

“Why? Is he married, or something?”

All right, now this was really embarrassing, he realized as he had to admit, “I don’t really know.” Could Gotham’s Dark Knight have a wife and kids waiting at home? It was a strange thought. It would explain Robin, though. But then what about Catwoman, and Talia al Ghul? 

“By that, I’ll make a wild guess you’ve never told him how you feel, either.”

“God, no. That…wouldn’t go well.” The kindest response he could imagine Batman making, if Clark ever completely lost his mind and confessed to being in love with him was a brisk order to snap out of it. “He’s not someone you can say stuff like that to.”

Bruce gave him a long, skeptical look. “Are you sure you actually know this guy?”

A bit defensive, since he asked himself that _a lot_ , Clark said, “I know him. A little bit. I don’t think he’s comfortable letting anyone close.” 

“Trust issues?”

Clark laughed. “You could say that, yes.” It was the height of the ridiculous, for instance, that Batman still insisted they all continue to conceal their civilian identities from each other. Especially as he would bet anything this rule applied only to everyone who wasn’t Batman. “Promise not to laugh?”

“I promise.”

Clark sighed and looked around the diner. He dropped his voice even lower as he leaned across the table and told Bruce, “It’s Batman, okay?”

Bruce stared at him, something almost studied in his manner as he sipped his coffee and then put the cup down with precision. “You know Batman?”

Clark’s shrug was diffident. “We’ve met a few times.” It was safe to admit that; Clark Kent and Batman had actually been bumping into each other quite a bit lately. 

“Well, I suppose it would be difficult to compete with a vigilante who dresses up like a giant rodent and terrorizes criminals.”

“He’s a lot more than that, Bruce. He’s so much more than people know.” Clark knew he sounded impassioned, more than could be accounted for by a few casual encounters, but it was hard to rein in his feelings where Batman was involved. “Anyway,” he gave Bruce a wry smile, “it wouldn’t be a competition. Batman doesn’t know I’m alive.” Not in the way Clark wanted him to.

“Then he’s an idiot on top of everything else.”

“It’s…” He shrugged, helpless.

“Complicated?”

He nodded. “Kind of.”

Bruce sat back in the booth and Clark instantly missed his touch. “Do I stand any chance?” 

“Bruce…” Clark sighed. “Of course you stand a chance. You’re Bruce Wayne: you can have anyone you want.”

Something wistful in his look, Bruce said, “Apparently not.” He nodded then and stood up. “I apologize for putting you on the spot.”

“You didn’t. I-Can I think about it?”

“Of course you can think about it.” Bruce smiled and Clark thought he was going to touch him again. He tried not to be disappointed when Bruce didn’t. “Are you going to be in Gotham for a few days?” he asked and reached for Clark’s coat, to help him on with it.

“A few,” Clark said and nodded.

Bruce did touch him then: his hand brushed the nape of Clark’s neck for an instant as he straightened Clark’s collar. Clark felt it all the way to his toes. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe.”

The way Bruce looked at him then, it was easy to believe he really hoped they would run into each other again.

What knocked Clark for a loop, though, was realizing how much he would like that, too.

~*~

_Damn it!_ Bruce Wayne caught hold of the punching bag as it rocked wildly, imagined it was Batman again, and took great satisfaction in the way his fists pummeled the hell out of it once more. For good measure, he leaped, spun, and kicked it just as it swung back for more.

Somewhere, he strongly suspected, Fate was having a good, long laugh at his expense.

How else could this be explained? He no sooner made peace with his (clearly) one-sided attraction to Superman, accepting that nothing would ever come of that, than he found himself drawn to Clark Kent—only to discover Clark had a crush on Batman. He supposed it could have been worse. Clark could have had a crush on Superman; half the known universe did.

What Bruce felt for the Man of Steel was nothing so simple. Everything would be so much simpler if it were. If all he felt was a case of hero worship, if all he wanted was to get the Kryptonian into bed for a one-night stand of mind blowing sex, this would all be easy to get over. 

It was all Superman’s fault for smiling at him, _just_ for him. It hadn’t been like any of the smiles he bestowed on the world and everyone, ranging from “oh, what a beautiful morning,” to “bring it on, Darkseid.” No, this smile had been just for him, unveiled for the first time one night on monitor duty.

It had been New Year’s Eve and everyone was celebrating. For once, Batman hadn’t raised any objections. Most of them had just come back from helping the Green Lantern Corps stop a war—stop a genocide—and they needed something loud and bright and life-affirming. He hadn’t felt like taking part but he hadn’t minded the sounds of music and laughter that drifted out to him. He hadn’t expected Superman to skip the party and come join him. He hadn’t thought Superman would sit there so quiet, a weary air of something like melancholy around him. He knew he’d never seen that smile, the one Superman gave him as they looked at each other. 

Superman’s smiles were never enigmatic or wistful, with something intangibly vulnerable around the edges. Or if they were, he never showed those smiles to the world or even the other heroes. Bruce hadn’t understood his certainty about that. By some instinct he just knew it was true, that no one else had ever seen this smile or ever would. For some reason Superman had deemed him worthy of this intimacy, to share a secret no one else would understand. 

If Superman looked at him like that when they had sex, Bruce didn’t know how he would ever let him go. If Superman _didn’t_ look at him like that… He blew out a deep sigh and pounded the punching bag some more.

It would never happen. Whatever Superman believed they shared, he would never look at Batman that way. They were comrades-in-arms, and that was all. What did Superman need with him anyway when he had Lois Lane and Lana Lang and Lori Lemaris and…

When Bruce had found himself contemplating a name change—maybe Laurence Lamont, Liam Lonsdale, Lucky LaRue?—he had realized this had to stop. Accordingly, he had taken a sabbatical from the Justice League in the hope that if he wasn’t around Superman, if he didn’t hear his voice or see that smile as it lit up a room, then maybe he could get over this. 

And then he’d met Clark Kent. 

He had found the reporter down at the waterfront, prowling around in pursuit of a lead that would blow the lid off Intergang and prove Lex Luthor’s involvement with the criminal organization. At least, that was what he had finally admitted after Batman swooped down and grabbed him and gotten him out of the line of fire, just as three of Falcone’s goons sprayed the night with gunfire…

_“Are you all right?” he asked as he landed on the roof where he had left the other man. He’d taken care of Falcone’s goons and left them trussed up and waiting for the Gotham PD. Sirens were already headed this way, emergency lights of blue and red dispelling the darkness for a span of time._

_“I-I’m fine,” the man said and pressed back into the shadows._

_“Don’t be afraid,” Batman said as he stepped closer. He could have sworn a bullet had struck this man. As he examined him, though, all he found was a ragged hole in the man’s overcoat, where a bullet had torn through, but with no corresponding injury. “You were very lucky.”_

_“Yes, thank you,” the man said, his voice quiet, his face averted._

_Not sure what prompted the impulse, Batman put a gloved hand to the man’s face and carefully turned him so he could see the man’s face. “Who are you?”_

_Behind nerdy, black-rimmed glasses, the man’s eyes were wide with alarm. “You…you don’t know?”_

_“No.”_

_“Oh.” Those eyes were still wide but more with astonishment now. “Oh… Umm, I’m…Clark, Clark Kent? Of_ The Daily Planet, _in Metropolis?”_

_Batman didn’t smile, concerned that might spook him again. “I’ve heard of it. What are you doing here?”_

_“Ah, well,” he pushed at those glasses, a nervous gesture Batman would grow accustomed to, “I have some information that a shipment of thrall is coming in, and that Falcone has arranged for its distribution in Metropolis through Intergang.”_

Thrall… _The synthesized drug, exceptionally addictive and lethal, had hit Gotham’s streets six months ago. There were already over two dozen fatal overdoses attributed to it, to say nothing of all of the collateral damage. Batman had suspected an Intergang connection and had asked Superman to look into it._

_Suspicious, Batman asked, “Did Superman send you to check up on this?”_

_If possible, the other man’s eyes grew even wider and he stuttered, “S-S-Superman?” His voice had climbed about an octave “N-no, no. I found out on my own.” More sure of himself then, he added, “You’ll have to understand that I can’t disclose my sources, though.”_

_“Of course not.”_

_Clark stared at him, blinked, stared some more. “You’re…not going to dangle me off the side of a building and force the information out of me?”_

_Batman stared at him. “I hadn’t planned on it,” he said, and thought Clark almost looked disappointed. “Did you want me to?”_

_“I don’t know,” Clark said and gave him an uncertain look from under his bangs. “It might add to my street cred.”_

_Batman nearly did smile then. “Maybe another time. I think your street cred will be fine after tonight.”_

_He went to the edge of the roof and looked down into the street filled with police cars, Falcone’s goons rounded up. He saw Jim Gordon down there and lingered on the edge an instant as Gordon looked up at him. As Clark started to come up beside him, Batman caught his arm and pulled him back. “I think it’s time you got out of here, though. Where are you staying?”_

_“Ah,” Clark looked uncertain for a moment, “the…Fairmont?”_

_“You’re not sure?”_

_Clark made an impatient noise deep in his throat. “I’m sure.”_

_“Well, it’s not exactly a rat-trap. Come on,” he caught him by the arm, “you need to get out of here. Commissioner Gordon’s a good man but he might not be as understanding as I am.” That startled a bark of laughter out of Clark. It choked off into a gasp of shock as Batman grabbed hold of him, fired off a grapple, and swung out into space with him. “Hang on tight.”_

_Clark stared down. “You’re insane!”…_

Months later, he still didn’t have a good explanation for his actions. Clark had been perfectly capable of making his way back to the hotel on his own. Anyone would think the big, bad Batman had been smitten and wanted to show off.

Bruce grunted and beat down the punching bag in a flurry of pounding fists.

“Charmed,” he told the punching bag when he stopped to catch his breath. “Batman _may_ have been charmed.” 

Alfred discreetly cleared his throat. “Sir? You’re talking to yourself?”

Bruce picked up a towel. “I’m talking to Batman.”

Alfred cleared his throat again. “Sir, you _are_ Batman,” he said, sounding mildly concerned.

Bruce sighed. “I know I’m Batman, Alfred.”

“Very good, sir. One likes to be kept up to date. In that case,” he briskly continued, “you should know that Commissioner Gordon has activated the signal.”

Bruce nodded, glad of the distraction. A few rounds with Killer Croc or Mr. Freeze, or whoever wasn’t currently locked up at Arkham or Belle Reve, might be just the thing to get Clark Kent off his mind.

~*~

It was Killer Croc, after the Ancient Wonders exhibit at the Natural History Museum. A priceless collection of relics, works of art, gold and jewels from around the world, Batman and Gordon had known one or more of the usual suspects would make a try for it. As challenges went, it was a minor one, but it did have the desired effect of driving Clark Kent from his thoughts.

That is until he was in the alley and staggered, leaning heavily against a wall for a moment as blood loss made him dizzy. Arms were suddenly around him, holding him upright. For a moment he would have sworn… But then Clark spoke up, asking, “How badly are you hurt?”

“I’m all right,” he said and tried to pull free. “Just—”

“—bleeding all over the place?”

All right, so Killer Croc had got him good across the back and one thigh. “It’s nothing I haven’t survived before.”

“Wow, that is so reassuring,” Clark snarked back. He shifted them around, an arm around Batman’s back while Batman bowed to the inevitable and slipped an arm over Clark’s shoulders. “Where am I taking you?”

“My car; it’s a couple of blocks down there.” He pointed, did his best to bite back a painful groan, and let himself lean a little heavily on Clark for a second. God, he was warm, and…solid. What did he do back on the farm, bench press cows? “What are you doing here anyway?”

“I’m a reporter, remember? I go where the story is.”

“Where the danger is, you mean.” 

“That’s usually where the story is in this town. Need to rest?”

“I’m good.”

Clark snorted, and Batman stopped and stared hard at him as some intangible clue hovered just out of reach. “Batman? Look, I think you need a doctor—”

“No, no doctors. I just…thought I remembered something.” That sounded ridiculous even to his ears.

Clark’s reaction was odd, though. If Batman didn’t know better, he would almost think Clark looked guilty. Or maybe just nervous, because the next thing he said was, “Gosh, these alleys are really dark.”

“Alleys tend to be like that, even in Metropolis.”

“I don’t know, I think these are darker.”

“Well, you do get to bask in the residual glow of Superman, I suppose.”

“You don’t think a lot of Superman, do you?”

It was Batman’s turn to feel inexplicably guilty. “Other than his stubbornness, naiveté, and insistence that everything is black-and-white, I have no problem with Superman.”

“Oh, well, if that’s all…” That was odd: instead of sounding annoyed at the implied criticism of the hero of Metropolis, Clark sounded dryly amused. 

Batman braced a hand against a wall, indicating he could stand on his own. Clark nodded but remained close, ready to catch him. “The car’s just there,” he said, jerking his chin as he pressed a button on his belt to call it to him.

“The Batmobile?”

Batman gave him a dark look. “That makes it sound like a cute toy.”

“Believe me, Batman, nobody thinks it’s cute. Powerful and sexy, and kind of scary, but definitely not cute.”

Batman gave him another look. “Powerful and scary?”

“And sexy.”

“Hmm.” Well, perhaps he would take that under consideration. He had quite a number of things to think about, actually. 

For example, as Clark helped him into the car and then insisted on looking at his wounds, it was impossible not to recollect how Clark had confessed to a crush on Batman. Would this latest encounter change that? Batman had been fully in command of those other circumstances. Now Clark had first hand proof that the object of his admiration was anything but all-powerful. Would that take Batman down a notch?

Apparently not, he realized, as Clark crouched down and looked at him, worry in his eyes. “Some of these are going to need stitches.”

Batman nodded. “They usually do.” 

“Is there a first aid kit around here?”

Batman stared at him, rolled his eyes behind the cowl, and then stretched over to draw out the flat case and hand it to him. The disinfectant stung as Clark swabbed it over the wounds, but his touch was as remarkably gentle as it was matter-of-fact. Anyone would think he patched Batman up on a regular basis.

The perilous thought passed through his mind that he could have this; he could come home to Clark and feel this same careful, soothing touch tending his injuries. And when everything was all patched up, he could submit to Clark’s demands that he go straight to bed and experience an entirely different set of sensations as Clark joined him. They could even have a professional partnership. Clark’s investigative skills just needed some fine-tuning. He might balk at adopting a costume and secret identity but they could work around that. Batman could train him to handle himself in a fight.

A whole world of possibilities was posed to unfurl. All he had to do was tell Clark, _“I have something to show you,”_ and take off the cowl.

There were only a few things wrong with that scenario. Not least of which was Clark suspecting he had been played for a fool.

When Clark had stumbled into his office today, lost and looking for Lucius Fox, Batman had thought this could be a chance to start over; to meet him as Bruce Wayne and get off on the right foot this time. He had imagined a gradual leading up to the big reveal, a reveal that wouldn’t be that much of a surprise because Clark was smart enough to have put a lot of the pieces together by then.

Everything was backwards now.

“Batman?” A hand was cupped against the lower half of his face; fingers brushed the edge of his cowl.

He looked at Clark. He tried not to turn his face into that touch.

“You kind of spaced out on me there.”

He glowered. “I was thinking.” Wool-gathering, anyway; indulging a ludicrous romantic fantasy that he knew could never be. Why didn’t that knowledge make it easier to let go of it?

“Of course you were,” Clark said, something fondly indulgent in his voice. 

Batman stared at him. He wanted to hear that voice every day, every night. He wanted to feel those hands on his body. He wanted to wake up to that smile. He wanted… He looked at Clark crouched before him again, at his mouth. It was a good mouth. A mouth that smiled often; perfectly shaped lips that would shyly yield to his kisses…

“Clark?” 

Clark instinctively moved closer. “What?”

Batman reached out, one gauntleted hand curved around the back of Clark’s head as he pulled him in closer, as close as they could possibly get with clothes and Kevlar in the way. Batman kissed him. Barely kissed him. It was soft and chaste, just a brush of lips, and if he didn’t stop right now he didn’t think he ever would. Clark wouldn’t let him stop. Clark held him there, hands cradling his head as he angled in to kiss Batman back. He yielded to Clark, lips parting as Clark’s soft, warm tongue darted against them, and there was nothing shy in this kiss at all.

The ambience was horrible. Their first kiss was supposed to happen while they took an evening stroll through the gardens at Wayne Manor, and there was supposed to be a shower of shooting stars as their lips met for first time. He didn’t know why, there just always were when he imagined this. He wasn’t supposed to be bleeding and grubby, either. Yet none of that mattered. The dark and dirty alley faded away, and he felt the stars shooting through him as they held onto each other and kissed as if they could never get enough of kissing each other. Only the need for oxygen made them pull apart, and Batman thought he might have willingly foregone that. He could think of worse ways to die than kissing Clark Kent into eternity.

“Oh, God, Clark,” he breathed out. He let himself lean forward and rest his head against a strong, broad shoulder. “Are you sure you’re not some enchanted prince sent to capture me?” He felt like he must be under a spell.

“Not a lot of enchanted princes in Kansas,” Clark murmured. He pressed soft kisses along Batman’s jaw. “I wish I could see your face.”

Now, he should do it now. It would be so easy; just pull the cowl off and put an end to this charade. Clark would understand, right? He wouldn’t feel foolish. He wouldn’t be suspicious that he had been set up and tricked, that this was all some kind of cruel joke. 

“Clark, I…” What if Clark did feel all of that and more, though? _“Damn it.”_

Uncertain now, Clark said, “What is it?”

“Clark, I can’t.” He reached to lay his hand along Clark’s face, longing to rip off the gauntlet and feel the smooth warmth of his skin. “I can’t.”

Clark nodded.

“It’s not because I don’t trust you.”

Clark nodded again.

“I have to go now.”

Clark nodded some more, asked, “Will I see you again?” He tried to keep his voice neutral, as if it didn’t really matter, but Batman could hear the hope running through it.

“I don’t know. I…” His gloved fingers trailed along Clark’s face, touched his lips. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not okay, damn it. It’s…” _Tragic_ was so melodramatic, but he felt melodramatic right now. “It’s not okay,” he repeated and kissed him again. He would have this kiss, at least, if he never had anything more.

~*~

It was all Clark could do to stay put in the alley and watch Batman drive off. It was all he could do not to launch himself skyward and shout to the universe that Batman had kissed him!

Batman had kissed him and there had been such clarity in that moment. Clarity that just as swiftly gave way to cloudy confusion, because as earth-shattering as the kiss had been…Clark found he wanted Bruce Wayne, too. The forbidden thought even skittered through his brain that everything would be perfect if he could have them both.

It occurred to him to wonder if he had secretly been some kind of slut all along but hadn’t realized it until now.

He didn’t see how he could have either one of them, though, if he didn’t tell them he was Superman. As daunting tasks went, that one was really daunting. What if Bruce shared Batman’s opinion of the Man of the Steel? What if those times Clark had thought Batman might actually secretly like Superman was just a bucket load of wishful thinking?

Why did everything have to be so damned complicated?

Batman had kissed him. That was the important thing. If that could happen, anything could.

===


	2. Don't Know What I'm Up Against

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce decides he's going to close the chapter on Superman and woo Clark Kent...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay on getting back to this one. Future chapters should come along much more quickly.

2\. Don't Know What I’m Up Against

  
  
Coffee and newspaper in hand, Bruce followed the shouts of laughter to the solarium pool. Just past noon, sunlight streamed into the room and gleamed off the water and the white Carrara marble tiles. Tropical ferns and exotic orchids added splashes of color, most of them clustered around the rock wall at the far end where a waterfall spilled into the pool. It almost camouflaged a fiberglass slide that curved out from the rocks and granted swift and sudden access to that water. Little could disguise Dick and Tim as they plunged down that slide like sleek and agile otters and sent up a spray of water as they splashed into the pool.  
  
Safe from the water, Bruce drew his black silk robe more tightly around him and settled down on a chaise longue, careful of the wounds Killer Croc had scored along his back last night. He decided to take it as an encouraging note that he only winced a couple of times as he stretched out. “Alfred’s not back yet?” he asked as the boys swam to the edge of the pool.  
  
“Nope.” Tim shook his head and scattered more drops of water. “He said your errand might take awhile.”  
  
Yes, Bruce imagined that was true enough. He took a sip of his coffee and unfolded the paper and tried not to dwell on the nature of the task he had assigned Alfred. Either everything would turn out the way Bruce wanted it to, or… No, this wasn’t the time to brood over a negative outcome. Mind made up to that, he put the cup down on the side table and snapped the paper open a bit more forcefully that was entirely necessary. He looked up to find two pairs of bright blue eyes trained on him with sharp curiosity and quirked an eyebrow back at them in inquiry.  
  
“Since when do you read _The Daily Planet_?” Dick asked.  
  
Intent on the front page— _City Still Cleaning Up after Mxyzptlk Rampage. **Alien Menace Genuine, says Luthor,** Exclusive Photos: Superman Rescues Kitten from Tree_ —Bruce said, “Since they’re running a series of investigative reports on Intergang. Go swim.” The excuse was real enough; it just wasn’t Lois Lane’s byline Bruce was looking for at the moment. He found what he wanted below the fold:  
  
 **Suicide Slum Success Story**  
 _How Hard Work and Jiminy Cricket Made a Difference_  
by Clark Kent  
  
When she was 9, Jerrika James made a wish on a shooting star…  
  
It wasn’t a splashy story, Bruce saw as he read on. It was just heartfelt and honest, written without forced sentiment but quietly celebrating the triumph of the human spirit when faced with what should be overwhelming odds. If he thought about it, Bruce realized the piece was exactly what he would expect Clark to write.  
  
He sipped his coffee and settled back some more, the soreness of his wounds slowly receding. The warmth of the sun leached some of the ache from his bones and his eyes drifted shut for a moment. Alfred had been insistent that he get some rest after last night’s Killer Croc episode and Bruce felt no inclination to defy him just at the moment. Besides, it felt good to rest his eyes…  
  


***

  
_French doors gaped open and white curtains billowed in the breeze as lightning forked across the sky. Suddenly, Batman loomed there. His cape streamed behind him as he looked into the hotel room, flashes of lightning illuminating the interior. Clark lay across the bed, the sheets artfully arranged so that a considerable portion of his chest and one long leg were exposed. The fabric slipped some more to offer a glimpse of bare hip as Clark stirred against the sheets. Tousled black hair fell into his eyes as Clark awoke and looked over at him, blinking slowly._  
  
Batman closed the distance between them in two swift strides but held up a hand to stop him as Clark started to swing his legs off the bed. “I have to show you something.”  
  
As Clark watched, wide-eyed, Bruce reached up to remove the pointy eared cowl and then stood there, exposed and waiting as Clark stared at him. Shock and surprise played across his features. There was disbelief and suspicion, too, and Bruce braced himself for an angry rejection. It never came. A smile slowly broke over Clark’s features and he did climb off the bed now to come towards him.  
  
“Bruce,” Clark whispered and touched his face. “This is what I hoped for,” he said and gathered him close in powerful arms like steel—  
  


***

  
  
“Must be a good dream,” someone said and Bruce slitted his eyes against the sunlight as he became aware of his surroundings and the dream rapidly dissolved.  
  
“Dream, Master Richard?” Alfred asked as he made his way across to them with a silver tray balanced in one hand. The only thing on the tray was a white envelope and Bruce sat up as anticipation made his heart hammer.  
  
“Tim and I were just saying it looked like Bruce was having a good dream.”  
  
“Indeed? That would make a pleasant change.” As the boys went back to drying themselves off, Alfred held out the silver salver. If he noticed Bruce’s anxious state, he failed to remark upon it. “Mr. Kent’s reply, sir.”  
  
Bruce’s fingers twitched towards the envelope but then withdrew. “What did he say? How did he seem to you?” He posed the questions with a studied air of nonchalance, as if the reply couldn’t possibly matter. What the boys found to snicker about, or why Alfred’s mustache twitched for a split second, was entirely beyond him.  
  
“Mr. Kent was sorry to hear you were indisposed and conveyed his wishes that you enjoy a swift recovery. He appeared to find the contents of your note both unexpected and agreeable. He asked that I tell you he was honored by the invitation and would very much like to attend this weekend’s soirée, if it is at possible for him to get away.” At Bruce’s sharp look of inquiry, Alfred elaborated. “Mr. Kent is expected back in Metropolis. I believe he is taking an early flight tomorrow.”  
  
Bruce tried not to be resentful of the life Clark had in Metropolis. “Did he mention Batman?”  
  
Alfred raised a thoughtful eyebrow. “That name did not enter into the conversation.”  
  
No, of course it wouldn’t. Clark was hardly going to run around and blab about how he’d made out with Batman in an alley. Still, there was a part of Bruce that wanted to know what Clark thought about last night’s events. Had it been as memorable, as significant for him? For all he knew, Clark ran around Metropolis all day from one superhero tryst to another—  
  
“Sir?” Alfred interrupted his train of thought; for once, Bruce welcomed that. Alfred extended the salver a second time.  
  
Bruce eyed the envelope that lay there, innocuous in every way. White, with the hotel’s address in the upper left corner, and **To Bruce Wayne** written across it in a clear, confident hand. “That’s his reply?”  
  
“So I was given to understand.”  
  
Bruce picked it up off the tray, turned it over a couple of times, keenly aware of three sets of excessively inquisitive eyes trained upon him. With every appearance of indifference, he ran his thumb under the flap and took out a single, folded sheet of inexpensive hotel stationary. A business card fell out and landed on the floor. The boys reached for it but Bruce got there first and kept his fingers curled around the rectangle of cardstock as he turned his attention to the letter. Dated 11:30 that morning, he read:  
  
 _Dear Bruce,_  
  
I'm sorry to hear you're under the weather and hope you feel better soon. I'm giving Alfred my mother's special chicken soup recipe to make for you. It can work wonders.  
  
He looked up at Alfred. “He gave you a recipe?”  
  
Alfred reached into his coat to produce another sheet of paper, this one covered with mysterious culinary hieroglyphics. “I endeavored to explain that would not be necessary but he proved rather persistent.”  
  
Bruce felt a strange warmth start to blossom in his belly. Clark had sent along his mother’s carefully guarded, secret chicken soup recipes, probably handed down through generations. He wasn’t sure what that meant but it had to be big.  
  
He went back to the letter:  
  
 _I have to get back to Metropolis and write up my Gotham adventures_  
  
Bruce bet Clark had smiled as he wrote that. A secretive smile that only Bruce—and Batman—would understand.  
  
 _but I would love to come to your party if I can get away again. Alfred said the theme is the Jazz Age? And I should come prepared to play croquet?_  
  
He also said you gave him instructions to take my measurements so you could provide me with a suit appropriate to the theme. That was sweet of you, Bruce, and a little weird, but I think I can find something to wear.  
  
I can't make any promises about the croquet, though. Now, if we were talking ping-pong...  
  
Clark had definitely been smiling when he wrote that; Bruce could feel it, as if its warmth and luminosity had been infused into the ink. “You couldn’t get his measurements?”  
  
“Mr. Kent appeared to find it a rather dubious request, sir.”  
  
Hmm; well maybe they did things differently in Kansas.  
  
 _Well, I'll see you Saturday, then, provided nothing comes up in the meantime._  
  
Thank you for making my time in Gotham memorable.  
  
Yours,  
Clark  
  
P.S. I'm glad I got to meet your meet Alfred.  
  
P.P.S. I'm enclosing one of my business cards with all of my contact information, in case you need to get in touch with me.  
  
P.P.P.S. I'm really signing off now.  
  
Bruce ran his fingertips along the words as if to savor the ink and absorb hidden meanings. _Thank you for making my time in Gotham memorable_. They were almost banal, really. Even that _Yours, Clark_ was an uncomplicated, casually friendly closure. Only a lovestruck nut would try to read volumes of secret declarations between the lines.  
  
Annoyed with himself, he tucked the letter back in its envelope and examined the business card more closely. Emblazoned with _The Daily Planet’s_ iconic art deco globe, it did indeed contain all of Clark’s professional contact information. Better still, when Bruce flipped it over he discovered Clark’s private number clearly written out there. _In case you need to get in touch with me…_  
  
His fingers itched to grab his phone and try out the number. What would he say, though? Everything that popped into his head was either the kind of vapid small talk he had to endure at parties, or things better suited to a twelve-year-old with their first crush. Using his Batman approach wasn’t an option. He wasn’t sure how to be Bruce Wayne, though, or if there even was such a person anymore. It occurred to him that if he truly meant to woo Clark Kent, now might be a good time to figure that out.  
  
He tapped the business card thoughtfully against his chin for a moment and said, “He’s going back to Metropolis in the morning?”  
  
“So he said.” Alfred gave him a suspicious look. “Are we plotting something, sir?”  
  
Alfred really did know him entirely too well. “You didn’t tell him I was down with the plague or something, did you?”  
  
“Indeed not. I may have implied you had a cold.”  
  
Well that explained the chicken soup recipe. “I think I might be feeling much better this evening.”  
  
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised.” If there was a minor note of exasperation in Alfred’s voice, Bruce saw no need to call attention to it. “I’ll set another place for dinner then, shall I?”  
  
Tempted to say yes, Bruce stopped a moment to consider the boys, both of them already far too avidly interested in this. “No. No, I want to show him Gotham tonight.”  
  
“I see. And I take it this will include establishments that do not require reservations?”  
  
Bruce smiled and gingerly levered himself up from the longue. “The really interesting places never do.” He slipped the card into the envelope and tucked that away in a pocket of his robe. “Something on your minds?” he asked as Dick and Tim exchanged a wordless look loaded with meaning.  
  
Tim shook his head. “I’m not saying anything.”  
  
Bruce cocked an eyebrow at Dick who held up his hands. “Hey, all I know is the last time you were like this you wound up married to a plant.”  
  
Tim shot Dick a jaw-dropped look. “I can’t believe you said that.”  
  
“Somebody had to.”  
  
Before Bruce could reply, Alfred said, “Come along now; it’s nearly time for luncheon, please make yourselves presentable.” When the boys had taken their leave, Alfred said, “With all due respect, sir, Master Richard does have a point.”  
  
Bruce reined in his irritation. “You met him, Alfred. Did Clark strike you as less than human?”  
  
“Indeed not. If anything, the young gentleman is almost too genuine for belief.”  
  
Bruce gave Alfred a startled look, abruptly reminded of his own first introduction to Superman and how he had been convinced the Man of Steel was too good to be true. “Some people are that real—although usually they come from Krypton.”  
  
“Not all of them, sir, but I certainly have nothing to say against Mr. Kent.”  
  
Bruce met his eye and nodded, grateful for that endorsement, however reserved. “Thank you.” Chances were good this would all end badly, of course; he had never had a relationship that didn’t. There was something about Clark that inspired hope, though, and Bruce felt its fragile wings fluttering away in his belly even now.  
  
All he had to do was show Clark that Bruce Wayne had even more to offer than Batman.  
  
How hard could that be?


End file.
